The city pulsed with a steady rhythm, a machine of flesh and steel grinding forward in perfect, lifeless synchrony. Ivan Rozzlyn walked with the current, his boots tapping against the smooth pavement as he weaved through the morning crowd. It was always like this—orderly, mechanical, soulless.

The Aethans moved with an eerie precision, their pale faces expressionless, their gait measured. A sea of white-haired citizens dressed in shades of blue and silver, their Voluran staffs held like scepters of unquestioned authority. They never jostled, never rushed. Their eyes, dull and insincere, flickered briefly over him before sliding away, as if registering his existence was merely another routine task in their structured lives.

Ivan exhaled slowly, adjusting the straps of his satchel. The weight of textbooks and notebooks pressed against his back, a familiar burden. Aethan schools demanded excellence—especially from him. Expectations wrapped around his name like chains. Rozzlyn. The son of Brent Rozzlyn, the brilliant scientist, the architect of Millinggarde’s downfall.

He turned his gaze upward as a train rumbled above him, gliding along elevated rails. The mag-rail system had been one of Aether’s many "gifts" to Millinggarde, though no one had asked for it. Sleek, steel-bodied carriages hovered effortlessly along their tracks, propelled by refined magic extracted from the very land they had stolen. Aether's efficiency was absolute—transportation ran on time, structures were built at an impossible pace, and order was maintained with an iron grip.

But there was no warmth here.

Ivan watched as a man floated past, feet barely skimming the ground. A Voluran staff crackled faintly in his grip, the tip glowing with residual energy. With a flick of his wrist, he shot forward, weaving effortlessly through the air before landing lightly onto the train platform above. Others followed, each movement calculated, each action seamless.

It was a sight that would have once been considered miraculous. Now, it was mundane.

The common people of Aether—those without staffs—shuffled along the designated walkways, their yellow identification chips glinting in the morning light. Honorary Aethans, former Millinggardans who had either submitted or been useful enough to be granted a sliver of privilege. They looked no different from the others, but they were marked. Always marked.

A child stumbled near the edge of the sidewalk, and for a brief moment, Ivan’s fingers twitched toward him. The boy's mother yanked him back without so much as a word, her expression blank, her movements as lifeless as the city itself.

Ivan forced himself to keep walking.

This was the world he had grown up in. Seven years had passed since the invasion, and Millinggarde had become nothing more than an extension of Aether—a machine running on stolen resources and silent submission. Resistance still stirred in the shadows, whispers of defiance echoing in the underground, but here, in the city’s heart, all was still.

For now.

The school gates loomed ahead, a towering construct of polished steel and arcane engravings that pulsed faintly with residual magic. Rozzlax Academy. The name alone carried a weight Ivan had long since grown weary of. Named after his father, built on the foundation of Aether’s conquest, it was the pinnacle of the regime’s vision—a place where science and magic intertwined, reserved only for the elite.

He walked past the entrance scanner, feeling the brief static hum against his skin as the system registered his identity. A few students glanced at him, their expressions unreadable. To them, he was both a curiosity and an expectation. The son of a legend. The heir to Aether’s scientific future.

Inside, the school grounds spread out in immaculate symmetry. Wide, marble-paved walkways separated pristine lawns and courtyards, where students either read quietly or practiced controlled bursts of magic. Small floating drones patrolled the air, watching, recording.

Ivan’s steps slowed as he approached the main building, his gaze drifting upward to the central tower. At its peak, a massive Voluran crystal gleamed, pulsing with refined mana. It was a power source, a symbol of Aether’s unyielding presence. Aether has left its mark on everything.

“Ivan!”

The voice snapped him from his thoughts. He turned to see Fent Erasmus, one of the few people in this place he could tolerate. Fent jogged up to him, his copper-toned skin glistening slightly in the morning light. Unlike most of the students here, Fent didn’t carry himself with Aethan rigidity. There was an energy to him—an awkward, untamed quality that set him apart.

“You looked like you were having another moment,” Fent said, grinning as he fell into step beside Ivan. “Don’t tell me you’re already dreading another day of lectures.”

Ivan exhaled. “You say that like there’s something to look forward to.”

“Come on. We’ve got Energy Displacement Theory first. That’s got to be at least mildly interesting.”

Ivan scoffed. “It’s just another way to teach us how to maximize efficiency. How to drain more magic without waste. You know what they’re really training us for.”

Fent’s grin faltered, but only for a second. He shrugged. “Hey, at least you don’t have to worry about struggling. Some of us actually have to study.”

Ivan didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. They both knew the truth.

Rozzlax Academy wasn’t just about education. It was about control. About shaping the future leaders of Aether’s regime. Science was their weapon, magic their tool. And students like him—whether they realized it or not—were being molded into something useful.

The hallways of the academy were lined with polished steel and floating glyph-screens displaying news updates. Ivan’s eyes flicked to one of them.

Security Reinforced in Millinggarde West Following Disturbance.Voluran Tariffs Adjusted for Efficient Allocation.Director Skarlett Abetha to Give Address at the Capitol.

He clenched his jaw. More control. More regulation. More power siphoned away.

“Hey,” Fent nudged him lightly. “Try not to look so miserable. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Ivan sighed, but he kept walking. In a place like this, blending in was survival.

Ivan let the murmur of the academy wash over him as he walked. The voices of students drifted through the corridors in hushed, polite tones, measured and precise. No one shouted. No one laughed too loudly. Even conversations felt scripted, rehearsed.

It was a world of careful control.

His boots clicked against the polished iron floors as he passed by the walls lined with Voluran sconces—crystalline fixtures that pulsed faintly with stored magic. They illuminated the academy with an unnatural glow, casting sterile, bluish-white light over the sleek architecture. The walls, too, bore the mark of Aether’s influence, adorned with intricate carvings of historical conquests, each one a silent declaration of dominance.

Most students walked in single file along the designated pathways, moving with an air of quiet purpose. Their uniforms—pristine navy tunics adorned with silver insignias—separated them into their respective disciplines. Magic students bore the sigil of the Krylax Academies, scientists the Milltech emblem, and the Magiscience elite—his group—wore the insignia of Rozzlax Academy.

Ivan never cared for the uniforms, but his father did.

"You represent something greater than yourself, Ivan."

He swallowed down the memory and turned his gaze to the towering windows along the hallway. Beyond the academy’s pristine campus, the city stretched outward in cold, metallic precision. Rows of iron-plated buildings stood in orderly formation, their surfaces lined with mana circuits that pulsed in synchronization with the city’s core network. Everything functioned like clockwork. Everything had its place.

A soft hum filled the air as a student beside him activated their Voluran staff. A thin arc of blue-white energy flickered along its length, reacting to the user’s grip. Ivan barely spared a glance. Magic was common here, refined, regulated. Voluran staffs were more than tools—they were extensions of power, identifiers of privilege.

He had never applied for one.

“Rozzlyn,” a voice called from behind.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Ivan turned, already recognizing the voice before he saw the face. Head Instructor Varleon.

A tall, gaunt man with sharp features and silver-rimmed glasses, Varleon was one of Rozzlax Academy’s most revered instructors. His uniform was a shade darker than the students’, his insignia embroidered with golden trim. A sign of his rank.

“You should know better than to wander so leisurely,” Varleon said, clasping his hands behind his back. His tone was smooth, devoid of warmth. “The Rozzlax name does not afford you indulgences.”

Ivan met his gaze with carefully measured indifference. “I was on my way to class, Instructor.”

Varleon regarded him for a moment before nodding. “See that you do not waste time. You have a future to uphold.”

With that, the instructor strode past him, his movements crisp, rehearsed. Like everything else in Aether.

Ivan exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to sigh outright.

"A future to uphold."

What future? Aether’s future? His father’s future?

Certainly not his own.

The thought lingered as he stepped into the lecture hall, where rows of pristine desks and floating data-screens awaited. He took his seat near the window, watching as more students filed in, each one a piece of the well-oiled machine.

Fent slid into the seat beside him, offering a lopsided grin. “You really don’t help yourself, you know.”

Ivan smirked faintly. “You expect me to grovel like the rest of them?”

“No, but maybe try looking a little less like you’re plotting something.”

Ivan didn’t answer. He simply turned his gaze back to the city beyond the glass, watching as another train glided along the rails, as another staff-wielding figure soared through the sky, as another day in this lifeless, ordered world began.

For now, he played his part. But he would not be a cog in this machine forever.

The lecture hall remained hushed as the instructor, Dr. Alvis Nephron, strode to the front of the class. His lab coat billowed slightly as he moved, his every step measured and deliberate. A man of efficiency, of results—like all of Aether’s scholars.

Behind him, floating holographic diagrams flickered into existence, forming intricate, glowing blue patterns in the air. The anatomy of a human body, detailed down to the individual veins, illuminated the dimly lit room.

“Magic is only as useful as the hands that wield it,” Nephron began, his voice even, methodical. “And nowhere is this more evident than in the medical sciences. A failure to control your mana could mean the difference between restoration and ruination.”

Ivan barely listened. He had heard this lecture before—variations of it, at least. The careful balance of magic and biology, the methodical extraction of energy from the air, the precise application of mana to damaged cells. It was the foundation of all medical magic.

But he wasn’t interested in the theory. He was interested in who he’d be partnered with today.

Nephron waved his hand, and a roster appeared on the floating screen beside him. The names of students flickered across it, pairing them into assigned groups. Ivan’s gaze skimmed the list lazily—until his own name caught his attention.

Rozzlyn, Ivan – Starla

His fingers twitched slightly against the desk. Starla.

The name wasn’t unfamiliar. She was talked about in whispers, in careful admiration. A girl wrapped in quiet mystique. She was rarely seen outside of class, never engaging in idle conversations, yet her presence alone was enough to draw attention. Flawless in academics, effortless in magic. The granddaughter of Aether’s governor.

Ivan turned his head slightly, scanning the room. He found her almost immediately.

Starla sat near the middle of the hall, pristine and composed, her posture impeccable. Her uniform—a standard navy tunic—looked almost regal on her, though it bore no special markings of distinction. She didn’t need them.

Her hair was a cascade of silver so pale it was almost white, drifting in soft waves over her shoulders. Even under the cold artificial lights of the academy, it shimmered with an unnatural glow, as if reflecting something unseen. Her skin was nearly porcelain, flawless, and her eyes—

Ivan hesitated.

Her eyes were not like the other Aethans’.

Most bore the same dull, insipid blue, devoid of warmth. Starla’s were different. A deep, endless violet. Piercing. Unreadable.

She caught him staring.

For a fraction of a second, her gaze met his, holding it with a quiet, unspoken intensity. Then, just as quickly, she looked away.

Nephron’s voice pulled him back.

“You will now begin practical application. Today’s exercise: treating minor nerve damage. Each of you has been assigned a partner to ensure accuracy and stability. Do not fail.”

The words were hardly encouraging. Aether’s scholars were never given room for failure.

Students began shifting around, finding their partners, adjusting their chairs. Ivan stood, brushing off the lingering weight of Starla’s gaze, and made his way to her.

She was already preparing the spell.

Her hands moved with practiced grace, weaving the air with delicate, precise gestures. Mana followed her fingertips like threads of liquid light, forming intricate sigils in the space between them. The glow of her magic wasn’t harsh like most—where others had to force their will into existence, hers seemed to flow, as natural as breathing.

By the time Ivan sat across from her, she had already formed the basis of the healing spell.

“You’re fast,” he muttered, watching the energy swirl around her.

Starla barely acknowledged the comment. “Efficiency is expected.”

Her voice was as delicate as her movements—soft but clear, carrying an elegance that felt just slightly too refined for a classroom setting.

Ivan exhaled, rolling up his sleeve to expose the artificial wound etched onto his forearm—a controlled cut, meant to simulate minor nerve damage for the exercise. The academy didn’t believe in theory without experience.

Starla’s gaze flickered to the wound, then back to her spellwork. The violet in her eyes deepened as she refined the spell, guiding the mana in smooth, deliberate strokes.

“Hold still,” she instructed.

Ivan didn’t move.

The magic met his skin like a whisper. Warmth, featherlight and precise, spread from her fingertips to his forearm, seeping into the wound with an almost unnatural gentleness. He had experienced healing magic before—it was usually more mechanical, almost sterile in its execution.

But this was different.

The mana didn’t just repair; it soothed, as if it carried something more than just energy—something alive.

Ivan found himself watching her again. Not just her magic, but her. The way her expression remained perfectly still, yet there was an unmistakable clarity in her focus. The way her fingers moved, tracing unseen pathways through the air, commanding the very essence of magic itself with effortless control.

Aether’s people were trained for perfection. But Starla was something else entirely.

The magic dissipated, the spell complete.

Ivan flexed his fingers experimentally. No residual pain. No stiffness. She had done it flawlessly.

Nephron passed by, observing their work. He nodded slightly. “Acceptable.”

It was the closest thing to praise that any of them would receive.

As Nephron moved on to inspect the other pairs, Ivan glanced at Starla once more. She had already pulled back, as if the exchange meant nothing.

“You do this often,” he said, though it wasn’t really a question.

Starla’s gaze flicked to him, briefly, before returning to her own hands. “Healing is fundamental.”

It was a simple answer. Too simple.

Ivan wasn’t sure what he had expected, but something about her composure felt like a wall—polished, unyielding, deliberate.

He leaned back slightly, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Ever think about becoming a field medic?”

Starla didn’t respond right away. Then, after a pause—

“I have no need for such a path.”

The words were precise, spoken without hesitation. There was no arrogance in them, no dismissiveness—only certainty.

Ivan studied her for a moment longer, then exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. What an enigma.

He looked down at his arm once more, at the place where her magic had woven him whole again. For a moment, just a moment, it had almost felt… human.

But Starla wasn’t human.

She was Aethan.

And in Aether, even beauty could be as cold as steel.

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